The Real World
by krazykitkat
Summary: But how can she live with herself if she stays quiet? - Post-ep to "The Women of Qumar" (CJ/Toby)


TITLE: The Real World  
Post-ep to "The Women of Qumar"  
AUTHOR: Katrina McDonnell  
EMAIL: mcdonnem@tpg.com.au  
SPOILERS: Take Out The Trash Day, The Women of Qumar  
RATING: PG  
PAIRING: CJ/Toby  
DISCLAIMER: The West Wing and its characters are the property of   
Aaron Sorkin, Warner Brothers, and NBC. No Copyright Infringement   
is intended. I will put them back slightly disheveled.   
ARCHIVE: Sure, but please ask first.  
FEEDBACK: Much appreciated.  
ORIGINALLY POSTED: 13 October, 2002.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm in the minority, but I adored CJ in "The Women   
of Qumar". Loved how she was so passionate, that she stepped over the   
line. It reinforced her humanity, her strength of character and made her   
even more real to me. And I was more than a little disturbed by the number   
of 'CJ was abused/raped' stories that followed. Hence this story.   
THANKS: To Pene, Christine, Cal and Rhonda. Thank you for your much   
needed skills and support.   
SUMMARY: But how can she live with herself if she stays quiet?  
  
  
  
She turns her office chair towards the window and slumps into it. Her   
day is over and she removes her briefing face.  
  
She knows that today won't be marked as one of her crowning achievements.   
Though she did manage to piss off just about everyone she came into   
contact with. Could be she broke Josh's record?  
  
Shifting down slightly, she rests her head back on the chair. Her brain   
feels like it's about to explode and every muscle screams with tension.  
  
She crossed the line. It's not the first time she's gone close. Lowell   
Lydell's parents - Mandy was there to pull her back. Then trying to leak   
the story - Danny refused to take it.  
  
But today...she made sure she got into the room. She used her close   
relationship with Toby to berate three veterans. And doing so, she   
abandoned her professionalism at the door.  
  
She's angry at herself. But she's more angry that the social reality she   
lives in will use her passion and anger and tears as examples of why   
women aren't suited to high office. Women are emotionally weak, prone   
to hysteria, can't be trusted to make decisions, to act professionally.  
  
Funny how she never hears that response when Toby or Josh or the President   
fly off the handle. Why is it passion and emotion make a man strong, but   
a woman inferior?  
  
The women of Qumar know where they stand, they have no doubt of   
how their society views them. Her country tells its daughters they are   
equal, they can do anything they want, be whoever they want to be. It   
neglects to inform them of the double standards and hidden rules and   
that to achieve equality they must become less than human.  
  
Her own eyes stare back from the glass and she turns the chair slightly   
so she can ignore them.  
  
What the hell is she doing here? She was involved with EMILY's List   
and other organisations for long enough to understand the political reality.   
But somehow she's allowed Toby and the President to convince her that   
they, she, can make a difference.  
  
Instead she spins tales of political expediency and deal makings and   
convenience and one-upmanship. They settle for whatever will piss   
off the least number of voters instead of what is right and fair. They   
pitch to the lowest common denominator instead of raising the bar.  
  
And she is the first line of blame, even though she has no role in policy   
making.  
  
But, hey. She's just a woman. She fell for the sales pitch. She's still   
bashing her head against the glass ceiling, seen but not heard. She's the   
link easiest to remove and she just gave them a dozen more reasons to   
cut her loose.  
  
But how can she live with herself if she stays quiet? If she doesn't speak   
up for those with no voice?   
  
Shaking her head, she runs her hands over her face. She wants nothing   
more than to go home and slip into unconsciousness for the rest of the   
administration.  
  
But there's something she needs to do first.  
  
***  
  
He opens his apartment door, showing no surprise at her presence.  
  
His certainty makes her bristle, forcing her pride to the surface and   
adding a sharpened edge to her words. "I'm sorry for using you. I was   
out of line."  
  
"Yes, you were," he replies, no emotion in his voice.  
  
"Yeah. If you talk to them again, apologise on my behalf." She weaves   
her hands together and points down the hall with her steepled index   
fingers. "I'll see you at work tomorrow." She needs to leave before her   
control deserts her.  
  
"CJ."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Come in."  
  
She bares her teeth in a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "You sure?"  
  
"Yeah." He reinforces it with a nod.  
  
There is a warning inherent in her reply. "Okay."   
  
The living room is in shadows, the only light from a table lamp. A   
paperback lies abandoned on the couch. She stops in the middle of the   
room, hears the door close and his footsteps behind her. His hands   
settle on her shoulders, she shuts her eyes tight and bites her lip. She   
struggles to reinforce the wall, stiffening as he tries to draw her body   
back into his.  
  
"Don't," he breathes in her ear.  
  
She breaks away from his touch and turns on him.  
  
"Carol asked me whether I'd been hit. Because God knows, you need   
experience to feel for these people." Her voice rises, hands clenching   
into fists to stop them from shaking. "Did I miss the memo removing   
'empathy' from the dictionary?"  
  
He reaches out to soothe her.   
  
She smacks his hand away.  
  
"Don't. Just don't. I'm sick of being handled. 'Don't tell CJ, you know   
how she overreacts.' Since when has caring been defined as overreacting?"  
  
He takes a step towards her.  
  
She takes two back.  
  
"Why don't you call Nancy?" She gestures to the phone. "She'll know   
how to deal with an hysterical female and you can just sweep the bodies   
under the carpet." Her fury explodes at his impassive expression. "You   
patronizing son of a bitch."  
  
"Why did you come here?"  
  
"To apologise," she snaps.  
  
And laughs at the absurdity. Adrenaline leaks out through the soles of   
her feet, leaving exhaustion in its wake.  
  
He repeats his question in an even lower tone and his eyes slice through   
her barriers. He's the only one who can do this to her and she resents it.  
  
She bows her head and searches for the answer in the carpet weave.  
  
"CJ."  
  
Trying to salvage a modicum of pride she won't meet his eyes, fixing   
her gaze on a point over his shoulder. Only to find him staring back   
from better times. That rare smile, preserved in gloss, collapses her   
defences.  
  
"Because you know me."  
  
She forces her attention back to him. His hands are held out, waiting   
for her to make the next move.  
  
She knows this dance. Different ages, different cities, different reasons.   
Sometimes he leads, sometimes she does. A performance of comfort   
or apology or vindication or companionship. Never alike, but always   
searching for the same ending.  
  
She accepts. Their fingers curl around each other, his thumbs rub across   
her knuckles. She is drawn into his orbit, coming to rest against his forehead.  
  
"I don't know how much longer I can do this," she barely whispers.  
  
"Until the end."  
  
She snorts. "Whose end?"  
  
His head draws away from her and he gently tugs her hands.   
  
She is startled and reassured by the depth of faith and trust visible in his   
eyes. Today she'd used and abused both their professional and personal   
relationships. Yet he is still offering her what she needs.  
  
She shouldn't be surprised. This is the one place he always meets her,   
always gives her what she needs. Time and again. He displays a prickly   
political skin, but he introduced her to Sir Thomas More.  
  
He leads her to the bedroom. Sitting her down on his bed, he removes her   
jacket and shoes, swinging her legs up onto the mattress. She watches him   
walk around the other side and plump up the pillows against the headboard,   
before settling against them. He opens his arms to her.  
  
She falls into him. He pulls a blanket up over their bodies and begins   
to rock. One hand traces circles over her back, the other is clasped   
against her cheek. His lips vibrate against her hair.  
  
Requiring some affirmation of life, she slips her hand under his shirt and up   
his chest, her palm coming to rest over his heart. She allows the steady   
beat and the rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his skin, his soft   
caress and soothing words, to slowly relax her body and draw her soul to   
the surface.  
  
She cries.  
  
She cries for the faceless, nameless, voiceless, powerless people.  
  
For the women of Qumar, Thailand, Somalia and the United States, who   
live their lives ruled by fear and treated as property.  
  
For the Lowell Lydells, persecuted and tortured for having the temerity   
to be themselves.  
  
For the families so desperate they sell their entire lives for a ticket on   
a leaky boat and the remote possibility of a future.  
  
For the people of Kosovo and Afghanistan; the land mine victims of   
Cambodia; the handless children of Freetown; the generations ravaged   
by HIV; the children of Abraham; the young men destined to die in gang   
violence.  
  
She cries for those existing in fear and without hope.  
  
She cries because she lives in a world which treats empathy as a female   
weakness instead of a human strength.  
  
She cries because some twist of fate has put her here and them there.  
  
She cries because she works in the most powerful building in the world   
for a good man, but all she can offer them are her tears.  
  
She cries because this is the real world.   
  
  



End file.
